


Fox and Bear

by sherwoodfox



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cameos, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic, Established Relationship, Eye Trauma, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Homophobic Language, M/M, One Shot Collection, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Post-Heist, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Hatred, Sexual Content, Spoilers for Season Four, Suicidal Thoughts, ratings change per chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:00:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 18,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23727979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherwoodfox/pseuds/sherwoodfox
Summary: A little content for this woefully underwritten pairing.Mostly set in a theoretical time after the Gold Heist, in which these two have sorted out some of their issues, and now live together.
Relationships: Helsinki | Mirko Dragic/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 285
Kudos: 230





	1. Peace

The scars on Martín’s face suited him. The splatter pattern from the ricocheting glass had left a design like a masquerade mask, little decorations high across his cheekbones and scattered in places through his brow. The ones on his eyelids were the largest. If Mirko was to put his thumbs over those eyelids, he would be able to feel them, raised lines against otherwise soft skin. This was true for all of the scars, of course. Mirko’s favourites were the ones on his cheeks, which were easy to touch.

He didn’t touch them now. The scars suited Martín very well, but so did his expression when he was sleeping- and this Mirko only saw sometimes, instead of all the time, so it was special.

Martín didn’t have any emotion when he was sleeping so deeply like this. He didn’t have all of the usual confusing things written on his face- walls behind walls in his eyes, walls that were broken in many places but solid in others, sly half-smiles and resentful glares and tears that came and went in an instant. He looked peaceful when he was sleeping. It was the only time he looked peaceful.

Though Mirko had already woken, and soft morning sunlight was creeping through the curtains, he stayed in the bed and watched this for a while. It was pleasant. He did so until those scarred eyelids started to twitch with the edges of a waking dream, and then he rose, and went to the kitchen to make breakfast.


	2. Anywhere

“I can drive. I’m good at driving. I have licences in five countries,” Martín said, folding his arms across the silk shirt he was wearing. The angle at which he turned his head to look at Mirko was not reassuring.

“No.”

Martín’s eyes narrowed, which always made his pretty scars look so much sharper, and Mirko stood from his chair, knowing he hadn’t won yet. Making himself taller was never enough to intimidate Martín, though.

“I’ve been the getaway car plenty of times, you know. I can certainly drive down to the grocery store. Or anywhere, for that matter.”

“No. Look at me.”

Mirko took Martín’s chin in his hand, and the other man scowled, one eyebrow raised confrontationally. Mirko held his hand up by Martín’s head, about a foot away and parallel to his right ear.

“How many fingers?” Mirko asked, and when Martín’s eyes tried to flicker away he squeezed him slightly. “No. Look forward. Tell me.”

Martín’s expression bordered on thunderous for just a second, but then the clouds drew back inside, covered up by something sneaky. Well, that was the usual.

“Two,” Martín said sweetly. “A peace sign for you, gentle Mirko.”

“No,” Mirko said, and he pulled his hand back to the center of Martín’s vision. “Thumbs up.”

He let Martín go, who looked away, saying nothing. His eyes had never recovered from the Bank- from the botched removal of deeply buried shards of glass in a tiny, complicated, and very fragile set of organs- but he always tried to pretend this wasn’t the case. Mirko saw how he bumped into things too far into his peripherals, how he had to turn his head this way and that to see what lay before him. He was alright. It wasn’t dangerous. But in a car...

“It’s okay,” Mirko said, and he embraced the smaller man, kissing his forehead. “I’ll drive you wherever you need to go.”


	3. Mourning

When the sun had fallen, Mirko lit candles on the windowsill for the anniversary of Dimitri’s death. He said a small prayer, and then sat for a while to contemplate old memories. Martín looked in on him from the next room over, but soon left, and didn’t ask what he was doing.

When the sun had fallen, Mirko lit candles on the windowsill for the anniversary of Nairobi’s death (he knew her real name had been Ágata, but to him, she had always been Nairobi). He said a small prayer. He sat.

“What is this?” Martín asked this time, from the shadows of the adjacent room, where the lights were turned out. He hid behind the door there, like he was afraid to come in.

“Respect,” Mirko replied. “For the death of my best friend.”

Martín didn’t say anything else, but he stayed, and his eyes glittered especially bright in the candlelight.

The next year, when the anniversary for Oslo came around again, Martín watched once more. But he still didn’t come into the room.

A few days later, Mirko laid out new candles and the matches on purpose, and left Martín alone after the sun had set. If Martín didn’t want to intrude on the grief of others, he probably didn’t want someone intruding on his.

When Mirko returned, later in the night, Martín had fallen asleep on the chair by the window. The skin around his eyes was very pink, the scars white with strain, so he had been crying. The candles were still lit.

Today, of course, had been the death of Berlin.


	4. Cities

“This place is _dreadfully_ cold,” said Martín, as they walked down the Mannerheimintie in Helsinki. He looked ridiculous, shoulders bunched up to his ears, wrapped in a huge scarf and sunglasses to cover his scars- they didn’t need anyone seeing such distinctive markings and causing a stir, after all. Mirko laughed at him.

“No, you're just tiny,” he replied, clapping the smaller man on the back (a show of restraint- he had been tempted to aim for the ass).

“That’s right, I’m not a _beast_ like you,” Martín said petulantly, but Mirko caught the sly look sent at him over the glasses, a look with a touch of _heat_ to it. “Next, we’re going to my Sicily. There are beaches there, you know. And better art.”

“Nonsense,” Mirko said. “It can be as warm in Helsinki as in Palermo.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. I’ll show you.”

And like this they ended up kissing very desperately behind the nearest cover, Martín’s silly scarf on the ground by their feet, and his back pressed to the wall.


	5. Scars

The room was warm post-coitus, though the window was partly open, letting in the scents of sweet summer air. Martín’s fingers trailed across Mirko’s bare chest, passing through the hair there and over to his shoulder, where they found a scar- a patch of raised tissue, round and roughly the size of a coin.

“Where did this come from?” he asked quietly, and his expression was mischievous.

“The war,” Mirko said plainly. “A bullet landed there.”

“Oh, no,” Martín murmured, and he licked the mark, quick and kittenish, still looking Mirko in the eyes. That was almost too much. They had just finished sex. Mirko supposed he was in one of his...wilder moods.

Martín backed up, crawling down the bed like an animal, each movement slow and languid until he found another scar, this one broad and thick on the side of Mirko’s chest, where his ribs lay buried beneath thick walls of fat and hard muscle.

“...and this?” He licked this scar, too.

“A burn,” Mirko said. “For not talking.”

A little flash of displeasure crossed Martín’s face, but only for an instant, and then he was back to looking _wicked,_ biting his lower lip as he rubbed down Mirko’s belly to find another long, thin line tucked into his flesh, just above the hip bone.

“What about this one?” 

Mirko forgot to think for a moment, too distracted by how Martín’s tongue trailed up his skin, hot and wet and very close, now, to his awakening manhood. 

“In prison,” he managed. “The word is, uh…”

“You got shanked?” Martín purred, and he tittered softly. “Poor Mirko.”

Then Martín’s tongue found something else to lick, and Mirko made noises that contained no words of importance at all.


	6. Attire

Martín hummed, sounding pleased as he rested his chin on Mirko’s shoulder, their eyes meeting in the mirror.

“Now, this is really something,” Martín purred, and he adjusted the lay of Mirko’s suit from behind, running his hands down the sleeves and playing with the buttons. He had chosen this outfit- a bespoke suit of silky, handspun material, inky black and rich, royal blue. The buttons were mother of pearl, too numerous and delicate for Mirko to handle himself with his rough, calloused fingers- but Martín hadn’t minded doing it for him. He seemed to have taken a certain pleasure in it.

It was really for Martín’s pleasure that Mirko was wearing this. He wouldn’t think to pick such an ostentatious design himself, and even though the fit was perfect he felt ungainly in such delicate clothes, restrained. But he didn’t mind, not for one night. Especially given the way that Martín looked at him.

“Now for the final touch,” Martín said, and he picked a pair of ties, holding them up to Mirko’s throat in turn, studying the joining of the colours and the lay of the fabrics. “What do you think?”

Mirko didn’t know if there was a right answer- both ties were blue and patternless, only one was slightly darker than the other. The difference didn’t seem at all important to him- but of course, between the two of them, Martín was always the one who looked like a flawlessly styled gentleman, and that probably involved a bit of fussing.

“The first,” Mirko said, guessing, and Martín hummed.

“Yes, I think so too.”

Mirko would have tied the tie- this of course, he knew how to do, at least in one style- but unquestioningly Martín began to do it for him, flipping up his collar and winding the fabric around his neck. Mirko saw, then, that his eyes were practically on fire. His fingers, where they stroked the cloth around Mirko’s neck, shook slightly with desire. 

“When the party is over,” Mirko said, smiling to himself, “I will choose what you will wear.”

Martín raised one eyebrow. He finished with the tie, and turned Mirko’s collar back down, but still his fingers lingered there, his body warm and very close.

“And what are you picturing?”

“Nothing.”

Martín laughed.


	7. Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains some Explicit material, but I’d rather not change the rating on the whole story for just one bit (how I managed to write four sexy chapters in a row, I don’t know...)

Martín threw his head back and cried out, a feral sound, a mix of desire and frustration in the timbre. His skin glittered with effort, his collarbones shifting in a way that was hypnotizing, matching the soft (but noticeable) muscles on his belly. He looked very pretty, Mirko thought, with his long eyelashes fluttering and his lips turned red from kissing. 

“Harder,” Martín gasped, like he wasn’t the one on top, controlling how much Mirko filled him, and how fast. Still, Mirko tried to oblige, rolling his hips _up,_ if only to hear Martín whine. In this light, the green in his eyes was especially prominent. Vicious.

“Take it easy,” Mirko said, gripping Martín’s waist with one hand and hip with another (it was still amazing, honestly, just how _small_ he was in comparison), which made Martín growl ever so softly. Of course, he didn’t like being told to slow down, even when he needed to.

“I want it to- I want- _ah!”_ Martín lost his balance for a moment, having no doubt rubbed something especially good inside, and Mirko used the opportunity to sit up, pulling Martín into his lap.

“Why, you are sneaky,” Martín hissed, sounding desperately out of breath, and of course Mirko could feel how he was shaking. He didn’t wrap his arms around Mirko’s neck, instead pushing back at his chest, rubbing the harder muscles there. He certainly looked wild, with the burning in his eyes, and that wicked little half-smile. What had he been trying to say? Probably that he wanted it to _hurt._

“Easy,” Mirko said, because despite this he was having trouble thinking of anything else to say, not immune in the slightest to any of Martín’s charms, and even less so to the hot, silky pressure shifting on his cock.

“Oh, come on,” Martín snapped, close enough now to kiss- but instead, he bit Mirko’s lip, not so sharp as to draw blood but certainly enough to make him _throb._ “Fuck me _rough_ for once, _Helsinki.”_

That word broke the dam, and what Mirko usually found easy to hold back- indeed, preferred to hold back- came rushing out, and he shoved Martín down into the mattress, their positions now completely reversed, Martín’s head almost over the foot of the bed.

_“Palermo,”_ he growled, and all Martín had to say to that was “Oh, yes, yes, yes,” and Mirko claimed his lips like he claimed the rest of his body in bruising grips and deep, harsh thrusts.

When it was over both were entirely out of breath, and the bed was a wreck, their bodies slick with sweat. Mirko’s ears still rang with the noises Martín had made in his submission.

“Are you alright?” Mirko asked when he could, feeling tender, reddened spots along Martín’s waist and thighs; marks the size and shape of his hands, which were sure to become bruises by morning. Mirko never wanted that. He was ready to apologize for it, and for any other pains inside.

But, “Of course,” Martín purred with a terrible little smile. “That was _amazing.”_

“What about tomorrow?” Mirko asked, and Martín shrugged, rolling over and closing his eyes- an invitation to be held, and go to sleep, and ignore all of this.

“I’m probably fine,” he said. “And if not, you can bring me breakfast in bed. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Mirko sighed, because he knew he had lost this time. Reaching over Martín’s head he turned out the light, and wrapped his arms around Martín’s smaller body as gently as he could, cuddling him close under his chin to smell the familiar shampoo scent of his hair.

“Goodnight,” he murmured, but Martín was already asleep.


	8. Care

Mirko was sick with the flu. 

This was very rare. He took good care of himself, usually, eating good foods and practising regular exercise (including _very_ regular exercise of the more carnal kind with Martín) and took naps in the afternoon. He hadn’t gotten sick like this since childhood, he figured. But sick he was- with a headache and a sore throat and a fever that made all his limbs feel too cold and too hot at the same time.

“Oh, there there,” Martín said to him, bright-eyed and healthy, smelling like the wind outside. “What are you always saying? _Men take care of men.”_

He brought Mirko painkillers, and a little hand-held bell, and a glass of water with a fizzy vitamin C tablet in it. He took Mirko’s temperature, which was an endearing sight for how his tongue caught between his front teeth when he was focusing, how his free hand smoothed the damp skin on Mirko’s forehead.

“Only thirty-eight and a half,” Martín said. “You’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

Mirko grumbled, and caught Martín by the waist, pulling him closer to the bed.

“Oh, no way,” said Martín, laughing some, and he twisted out of Mirko’s grasp with ease. _“I’m_ not going to get sick. You know I’ll be utterly pathetic. So ring the bell if you need me- who knows, maybe I’ll come dressed as a nurse for you.”

Mirko managed to smack Martín’s ass before he was completely out of reach, which rewarded him with a sly little smile, and he supposed he didn’t really mind being sick.


	9. Break

When Mirko returned from his trip, it was late at night (or possibly early in the morning), and Martín was very drunk.

He had been out at a club earlier, this much was evident in the smears of black kohl around his eyes, but he had taken off whatever he had been wearing and replaced it with one of Mirko’s sweaters (and nothing else). On him, the knit looked ridiculously oversized, the hem settling midway up his thighs and the neck wide enough to show off his collarbones.

Mirko would have found this a very sexy sight to return to, if not for the fact that Martín was crying.

Or had been crying, anyway. There were still tear tracks on his face, and they gathered in glistening lines between his scars. Martín’s eyes were overbright, and he turned his head to the side, narrowing them slightly- ah, and then Mirko realized that in the dark, and from so far away, Martín probably couldn’t see him very well at all.

“...Andrés?” Martín asked, and his voice sounded tiny, completely different from the way he usually was.

“No,” Mirko said, and he made his way down the corridor and into the light, where Martín could see him.

“Oh...oh, _Mirko,”_ Martín said, and he took hold of the collar of Mirko’s shirt, leaning in like it was a lifeline. He was trembling, and his breath smelled of amaretto. 

“You won’t leave me, right, Mirko?” Martín asked, his voice little more than a whisper. “You wouldn’t...not all alone...with _nothing…”_

“No,” Mirko said, and he slowly wrapped Martín in a tight embrace, cradling him close under his chin. “I won’t leave you, I promise.”

Martín sighed, and it was such a miserable sigh that Mirko felt a heat grow inside him at the sound- a deep, bubbling, volcanic heat, and its name was _anger._

Mirko didn’t know exactly what had happened, for no matter how drunk, Martín would never tell him- but what he _did_ know was that Berlin had broken Martín’s heart.

Whatever he had done, he had broken it so thoroughly that it had made Martín _mad-_ made him hateful and destructive, made him the cruel and callous creature Mirko had first met in Italy. Now, it made him only drink and use drugs in damaging excess, and made him want sex to be painful and degrading. Berlin had broken him so badly Mirko didn’t think he was really fixed, even after all this time- and doubted he ever would be.

And this thought made Mirko very, very angry.

If he could have, then, Mirko would go back in time to the Mint and fight Berlin for this. In hand to hand combat, the way men of honour should, and Mirko knew he would win. He wanted Berlin hurt by it, shaken up, wanted him to understand that he had done something _wrong,_ and that he shouldn’t look so arrogant, shouldn’t play around so cruelly with that poor girl, shouldn’t have thrown Martín away and let him suffer.

But it was too late for that. Berlin was long dead. 

“It’s alright,” Mirko murmured. “Let’s go to bed. I’ll take care of you.”

Martín let himself be led, more docile than he ever was, and Mirko removed the last of his makeup and had him drink a tall glass of water so his head wouldn’t hurt in the morning, and kissed the scars on his eyes until he fell asleep. And even when Mirko, too, drifted away into the dark, he didn’t let him go. In this way, he would be different.


	10. Lightning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer one this time- it also made me change the tags, haha.

Out of breath, Mirko went to the bar for a beer. The music in this club was loud and animalistic, the beat thumping deeper in his chest than his heart, filling the atmosphere of the entire room. Even the lights throbbed in tandem with it, and what wisps of a melody there were barely mattered. Mirko didn’t particularly like this kind of music on his own, but Martín did, and he certainly liked to watch Martín dance. And Martín could dance for _hours._ Late at night, in a place like this, Martín was equally as savage and sophisticated as the music, and this elegant wildness was what had so captured Mirko’s heart in the first place.

It seemed that tonight Martín wanted an audience, because Mirko had only turned away for a moment before he was joined, Martín leaning back against the wood of the bar on his elbows. His eyes were gold and green, his hair slightly stuck to his forehead in places with sweat, and he was smiling a smug and mischievous smile. What an incredible sight. Mirko was smitten, wasn’t he?

“Oh, hello there,” Martín purred, and with one hand he caught the sleeve of Mirko’s shirt, toying with it like he had mind to tear the whole thing off. “Aren’t you a handsome fellow! Say, have we met before?”

Mirko grinned at him, not bothering to think of a witty reply, and then the man sitting in the stool on the other side of Martín coughed and mumbled under his breath: “Faggots.”

Martín turned his head immediately.

“Oh, pardon me?” he said sweetly, but his posture changed, no longer loose and sensual but tense and arched and predatory. An instant and almost invisible shift- something Mirko only recognized from having spent so much time looking at him. “I didn’t quite catch that, friend. Do you have something to say to me?”

The other man’s eyes flicked between Martín and Mirko in a sullen glare, and for a moment it looked like maybe he wouldn’t say anything- but then he made a mistake, and _did._

“I said, you’re a pair of faggots,” he said, raising his voice slightly, his consonants slurred. “And this is a normal bar, not a faggot bar, you shouldn’t be here.”

“Aww,” Martín cooed, and he tutted softly, and Mirko put a hand on his shoulder but he shrugged it off. “Come now, that’s no way to be. Aren’t we all friends here?”

He reached out and snagged the drunk man’s tie, sliding it through his fingers. The atmosphere was like that of the air just before a lightning storm, and Mirko could smell the electricity.

Danger.

“...you have a problem with faggots, hmm?”

The other man recoiled, the expression on his red face one of revulsion, and he smacked Martín’s hand away- and the moment he did so Martín’s other hand found the back of his head, and slammed his face into the bar.

“Ah, you think you’re better than me?” Martín purred, his voice was calm and silky and the man’s nose was broken, blood splattered across his face and over the smooth wood. A woman shrieked, but the music was still playing.

“I don’t think so,” Martín continued, and with his fingers in the man’s hair he lifted his head and slammed it down again, this time summoning a few more screams, heads turning towards the commotion. The sound the man’s face made was a wet, cartilage crunch, and his neck had gone lax, he did not try to lift his head again. Both strikes had happened in less than fifteen seconds.

Mirko grabbed Martín around the waist and pulled him away, which warranted a surprised yelp, but Mirko was bigger and stronger and he dragged Martín toward the club’s back door, uncaring of the crowd he pushed through to do it.

“Let me _go,_ I wasn’t done!” Martín snarled, and he hit Mirko’s arms a few times, and then resorted to scrabbling at them like an animal when that didn’t work. “You- how dare you- I’m in control here, _Helsinki!_ Don’t disobey me-”

Then they were outside, and the night air in the alley was cool and quiet, and Martín let out a frustrated, feral scream. Mirko released him, but for less than an instant, using Martín’s own forward momentum to spin him around and catch him by the wrists instead.

“Mirko-”

_“No.”_

Face to face, Martín closed his mouth, looking stunned. There was a bit of blood on his cheek, and his eyes were wide, completely disarmed.

“No,” Mirko said again, and then he began to walk brusquely away, still leading Martín by the wrist- though, without resistance this time. Martín said nothing.

They made it safely away before the police arrived.


	11. Mischief

The doorbell on the apartment in Buenos Aires rang, which was a surprise- this area didn’t get many salesmen. Martín put down the silverware he had been setting, and padded down the hall to open the door, finding on the other side the hopeful face of a stout, busty little woman who looked to be somewhere in her mid-thirties. She was wearing a decent red dress, and carrying a dish covered in aluminum foil, and when she saw him the expression on her face shifted slightly- from something almost excited, to merely polite.

“Hello?” he said first, disarmed. She didn’t look like any agent of the law, nor did she look like a criminal, so he had no idea what she was doing at his door.

“Oh, pardon me,” said the woman, shuffling her feet, like she too had forgotten herself. “I’m Paula Sanchez, I just moved in next door. I thought that, um, Mirko Dr-Dragic lived here?”

She stumbled over the pronunciation of Mirko’s last name, and Martín stared at her incredulously. She was blushing. She looked like an idiot.

“Well, let me see,” Martín said slowly. “Maybe he does.”

Then he closed the door, and walked back to the kitchen, where Mirko was frying meatballs.

“Who is it?” Mirko asked, looking perfectly innocent, the way he usually did.

“A woman calling herself Paula Sanchez. Do you know her? Apparently she knows _you.”_

“Oh,” Mirko said, “Yes. She is the new neighbour. I carried boxes for her yesterday. You were at market.”

“Ah,” Martín said, and he thought for a moment, and then he smiled. Suddenly, he found he was enjoying himself. Without saying anything else, he trotted back to the door, and opened it to find Ms. Sanchez still standing there with the dish in her hands. _Ridiculous._ She smiled at him, but she didn’t look quite so bright anymore.

“Well yes, as it turns out, he does,” said Martín, now putting on _charm._ “And why have you come by to see him?”

“Oh, um, well,” she said, looking over his shoulder, clearly hoping Mirko would come to the door instead. “I wanted to thank him for helping me yesterday. I made some brownies, see, it’s a family recipe, and, um…”

“Ah, you must like him,” Martín cooed, and he put his hands on his hips, delighting in the way her eyes darted about his face, clearly trying not to look at his scars, but having trouble looking elsewhere. “After all, he _is_ so very strong and handsome. You do, don’t you? Are you a single woman?”

_“Excuse me,”_ she said loudly, her face turning as red as her dress. “That’s not- that’s not- not very polite! I don’t, uh-”

“You’re right,” Martín interrupted, his tone of voice gentle. “That wasn’t very polite. My apologies. So, you made Mirko brownies because he’s strong and handsome and helpful, and you’re a single woman?”

She stared at him for a second, mouth hanging open, and then she said shortly: “Yes.”

“Well, that’s very kind,” Martín purred. “I’ll be sure to let him know.”

Then he took the dish from her hands (she let it go easily, still stunned), and began to close the door.

“Wait,” she said, expression like that of a rabbit in the headlights. “Who- who are _you?”_

“His boyfriend,” Martín chirped, and then the door closed.

“What is it?” Mirko asked when Martín came back to the kitchen cackling like a maniac. He put the dish of brownies on the table, and didn’t bother to reply.


	12. Reunions (1)

Martín looked very uncomfortable at the table in the Professor’s hideout home in the Philippines. It wasn’t something that the others were likely to notice, but Mirko knew him too well- he could see the tension in his shoulders, how his hands were constantly moving, adjusting little things like the placement of the silverware or the lay of his tie.

Mirko could also guess why- there were too many absences at this table. Two of them he felt himself, and very deeply, but he had always been able to accept grief and learn to live with it- to make it a friend, and smile with it, live his life happily in the present, instead of the regrettable past or troublesome future. Martín was not like that. The past made him _insane._

Still, Mirko was enjoying the party. He always loved these yearly reunions. After all, his dearest friends were gathered about the table- the strong, straightforward Denver and gentle, graceful Stockholm, they were always tanned and smiling, and every year little Cincinnati grew larger, spoke more words. Sometimes, Denver’s cousin Manila would join, with her particular charm and light wit. 

Tokyo was always the one to make the parties _parties,_ and she led many toasts, bright and fierce and so often smiling. Rio, who did not come with her but was happy to see her anyway, looked to be healing a little more each year- even if maybe, what he had gone through would always leave him scarred.

Bogotá did not often come, or if he did he did not stay. Perhaps the absence of that beautiful Kenyan city was too much. No one blamed him. Everyone had loved her.

Marseille, on the other hand, made his visits long, and though his and Stockholm’s dietary choices were sometimes a little tiresome, his presence was great fun. This year he brought with him a new friend, who was introduced as Seoul- a lanky German Shepard puppy, who everyone fell in love with immediately.

The Professor and Lisbon, ever the obliging hosts, always managed to bring everyone together- just like the Professor had originally, all those years ago, when those at the table had been but strangers, faces without a name. The Professor, while intelligent and awkward and deeply criminal, was above all a good man- and Lisbon, with her fierce logic and inherent inner strength, matched him perfectly.

These people, Mirko thought contentedly, were his family.

He put one arm comfortably over Martín’s shoulders, which caused the smaller man to start, but then slowly he relaxed. He didn’t look over (and thus probably couldn’t tell that Mirko was watching him, with the state of his eyes) but Mirko saw him smile ever so slightly. A secret, almost sweet smile.

Everything was alright.


	13. Reunions (2)

Mirko was washing the dishes from dinner when Denver cornered him, approaching under the pretence of taking a towel to help dry- but Mirko saw how furtively he looked down the corridor to where the others were talking in the lounge, how the muscles in his jaw clenched as he glanced back at Mirko, tossing the towel back and forth in his hands before moving to pick up a dish from the drying rack. He wasn’t very subtle. 

Still, “Thank you,” was what Mirko said first, smiling at him as Denver began putting the dishes away (probably not in the right places- but there wasn’t anything to be done about that).

“Yeah, no problem, no problem,” Denver said, and there was a moment of obvious silence before he seemed to work up his courage, flipping the towel over his shoulder and holding up his hands. He clearly had something important he wanted to say.

“So...how are you, Helsinki?” Denver asked, and Mirko turned off the faucet to look at him.

“Everything is good,” he said simply, and was going to return the question, but Denver spoke again first.

“Yeah. Yeah, so...you’re still with, uh, Palermo, right?” Denver gestured back towards the lounge, where some laughter could be heard.

“Yes,” Mirko replied. Denver nodded.

“And that’s...that’s all good, right, man?” Denver looked rather nervous, in his own way, and Mirko chuckled.

“Yes,” he said again, and was ready to turn back to work- discussion complete- but Denver kept talking.

“Well, I’m just asking ‘cause he’s kind of, you know…” Denver held one finger up by his ear and spun it in a circle, pursing his lips as though to whistle. _Crazy._ Mirko laughed aloud this time.

“And in the Bank- and before that, when we were in Italy- you know. He didn’t exactly seem very...nice. To you.”

_“We reject the body we spilled into- it doesn’t matter the body, we can’t help but reject it. Boom, boom, ciao. Homosexual sex! Haha!”_

Denver looked at him, eyebrows raised, and Mirko shook his hands to dry them before replying.

“You’re right,” he said slowly. “Palermo was very unhappy back then.”

He put one hand on Denver’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes, which in his experience, always made other people _really_ listen to the words in his mouth, instead of giving him their own.

“Palermo is a little crazy,” he said. “But he’s alright. Everything is good, brother, do not worry.”

He withdrew his hand with a firm clap on the shoulder, but Denver looked at him a second more, and then his expression broke into a familiar wide smile. He laughed- that distinctive jackhammer rattle. 

“You like crazy! I thought you’d be more into- I don’t know- stoic types that don’t say much, like yourself. But hey, look at me and Mónica- I guess opposites do attract!”

He resumed drying the dishes while he spoke, so Mirko turned the faucet back on, and they were done in time to join the others for an after-dinner round of sherry and cigarettes.


	14. Reunions (3)

“I know you’re there, Tokyo,” Martín called over his shoulder as he walked down the path towards the beach. He made an educated guess that it was Tokyo- he couldn’t see behind him at all, not unless he turned around completely and looked straight, but the footsteps he heard were light and quick and most people called out when they were approaching from the back; Mirko had apparently gone and _told_ everyone he was half-blind, which he had _not_ requested, and the others were very ‘respectful’, in the humiliating way that people were ‘respectful’ to retards and amputees...but if there was one thing Tokyo wasn’t, that was _respectful,_ in any sense of the word.

He heard her hiss softly under her breath, a confirmation, and smiled.

He walked down to the water without looking back, until the salt waves lapped at his feet and the wind brought the smell of the sea. He felt, more than saw, Tokyo come to stand beside him- some vague, dark shape in the broken corners of his left eye- and then she spoke.

“Helsinki is a real sweetheart,” she said. “He’s a good guy, no? Almost too good, I’d say.”

“Oh, yes?” Martín replied lazily, and he kicked at the sand, admiring the pink in the sun-setting ocean.

“Look at me, you bastard,” Tokyo suddenly snapped, and she spun him around by the shoulder, and now it was his turn to _hiss._

“The _fuck’s_ gotten into you, crazy bitch-”

“I know what you’re really like,” Tokyo snarled, close enough to his face he could see everything written on hers. “You’re a selfish, manipulative, power-hungry _maniac._ And Helsinki’s too good for you. You understand?”

“Of course I understand, señorita Tokyo,” Martín cooed, making his voice babyish and saccharine. “I’d better watch out with you around- I can’t abandon my boyfriend to get _wasted,_ let him be captured and _tortured for months,_ made to dig his own _grave-”_

Tokyo slapped him, which was only shocking because he didn’t see the strike coming, and even though it hurt he laughed- just like the sick monster she said he was.

“Break his heart and I’ll kill you,” Tokyo growled. “We all will.”

Then she went storming off, and when she was far enough away that he couldn’t hear her anymore Martín turned back to the sea, checking the inside of his cheek with his tongue. No blood. That was fine, then.

He wished he could see the horizon line a little clearer.


	15. Reunions (3.5)

“Denver said something funny today,” Mirko said in bed that night, looking up from his book to where Martín was brushing his teeth in the ensuite bathroom.

“Mm?” Martín prompted, raising his eyebrows. 

“He asked me if everything is okay,” Mirko said, smiling. It was a familiar, doting smile. “And I said yes, everything is okay.”

Martín’s brushing slowed for a moment, and then he spat into the sink and rinsed, not looking at his reflection in the mirror.

“Why do you suppose he would say that?” Martín asked.

“I think he was worried about us,” Mirko said with a chuckle. “He is a kind man. Good father.”

“No,” Martín murmured. “I think he was worried about _you.”_

Before Mirko could say anything about that, Martín turned off the lights in the bathroom and on his side of the bed, giving Mirko a chaste kiss on the lips before curling under the covers, facing the other way. He was wearing all of his pajamas- no sex tonight. That was fine. Perfectly content, Mirko marked his book and put it aside, turning off his own light. In the dark he wrapped his arms around Martín’s smaller frame and pressed his face into his hair. Like this, it was easy to fall asleep.


	16. Reunions (4)

Mirko made a show of tiptoeing around the Professor’s living room, holding one hand up to his brow as if to ward the sun from his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said out loud, turning his head back and forth. “I don’t know…”

A little voice giggled from behind a nearby armchair, but Mirko pretended not to hear it. He put one hand on his hip, the other on his chin, and hummed, the sound deep and contemplative in his chest.

As he did this Martín appeared in the doorway across from him, having approached as quietly as a ghost, but he didn’t come all the way into the room. He was holding a glass of pale yellow liquid in one hand, and despite the bright scent of summer and high spirits in the air, he looked faded.

“There you are,” Martín said softly. Then, in a clearer voice, he continued: “Stockholm made lemonade for everyone. Do you want to come try?”

He lifted the glass, waggling it temptingly, and though the gesture seemed half-hearted Mirko laughed.

“Of course,” he said. “But first, I must find Cincinnati. He is hiding.”

“Hiding?”

“Yes,” Mirko continued. “He is hiding very well. He is so good at hiding I cannot find him.”

Cincinnati, behind the armchair, giggled again, and to his credit Martín did not look over- but he did smile slightly, and he took a step out from the shadows of the doorway, halfway into the light.

“I see,” he purred. “What a predicament! If we don’t find him fast, the lemonade will be all gone before he gets any. That would be terrible.”

“Terrible,” Helsinki repeated gravely. Then he sat down on the armchair, letting out a great sigh of defeat. “But it is impossible. I don’t know where.”

“I’m here, I’m here!” Cincinnati yelled, popping up from behind the chair. Mirko threw up his arms and leaned back, crying out in shock while Cincinnati laughed.

“I was here the whole time, you didn’t see me!” he said, smiling widely in a way that- even though there was no biological relation- closely resembled Denver. “You’re bad at this game, Uncle Helsi!”

“No, you’re good at hiding, very good,” said Mirko while Cincinnati bounced up and down in triumph. “Now, we should go have your mother’s lemonade. After, we can both hide from Uncle Palermo. It will be fun because he will have trouble finding us.”

“Now, what was that?” Martín said, smirking, as Cincinnati passed him and ran down the corridor. Mirko shrugged, and already Martín looked brighter.

Whatever was bothering him, though, Mirko didn’t get a chance to find out- Martín kept busy that day, playing with Cincinnati and then helping with dinner, always keeping himself at the center of the commotion. But even though he smiled, and put on all his best charms, Mirko couldn’t help but think he looked a little sad.


	17. Reunions (Finale)

“You’ve got a nice place here, Sergio,” said Martín. They were alone on the back deck of the mansion-home, a beautiful wooden construct lit by yellow lanterns, facing forward to the sea. The Philippine summer night (night? or was it almost morning?) was warm, but a gentle breeze blew, and the sounds of the ocean were like the breathing of a sleeping giant. Martín was on the edge of wine-drunk, and everything was softer than usual. He didn’t feel like himself. He felt like he was floating. He realized vaguely that Sergio was in his striped pajamas- he had probably been woken by Martín’s late wandering. Everyone else must be asleep.

(That was a lonely thought.)

“Well, yes. We- um, Raquel and I- bought it in good condition, but we’ve had a few renovations. Hiring local contractors in cash, of course.” Sergio said quietly, flicking his glasses up his nose as he joined Martín by the rail.

“And they say crime doesn’t pay,” Martín murmured, and he took another sip of his wine, and silence fell between them.

Of all these people, he had known Sergio the longest. He was, in a way, almost like a brother- and oh, hadn’t Martín wished for years to have Sergio as his brother (in law)? He had been so desperate for such a thing. _Lucky number six._ But that chance was long dead, and Martín didn’t even know where it was buried.

Looking at the ocean, Martín found he did not feel that yearning anymore. He held the memory of it- it was a very deep pain- but in that moment he didn’t _feel_ it. In truth, all he felt was empty.

Empty, and rather _guilty._

“I think I’m a bad person,” Martín said slowly, and though he felt Sergio turn he didn’t meet his gaze. “But you knew that already. You’ve known that for _ages.”_

“Martín,” Sergio said, and Martín knew the culprit behind what was bubbling up on his tongue was in his glass, but he didn’t really care. It wasn’t like he was lying. Wasn’t it good, to tell the truth?

“I’m a bad person, and I can’t…” he shook his head like he was exhausted with himself. “I can’t even _tell him_...you know I haven’t said it once, Sergio? I haven’t said it _even once…”_

“Martín, I think that’s enough,” said Sergio, and he took Martín’s glass. Martín let it slip from his fingers without protest. It didn’t matter. “It's very late. Whatever it is, I’m sure it will seem different in the morning.”

He tried to take Martín’s arm, his touch gentle, like Martín was too far gone to think clearly. Martín thought his thinking was very clear. Clearer, even, than it usually was.

“You tell your Lisbon, don’t you?” he said pathetically. “You tell her you love her, don’t you?”

Sergio looked up at him, and for a moment their eyes met, and Sergio released him, setting the wine glass down on a nearby table.

“I do,” he said, somewhat awkward, putting one hand in his pocket and lifting the other to adjust his glasses again. His eyes flickered back and forth, flustered. “I do tell her that, yes.”

Martín nodded, and hummed. He was very calm, drifting like this, as though on a raft atop the peaceful sea.

“The others are right about me,” Martín continued before Sergio could speak again. _“You_ were right. I’m poison, Sergio. And so I...I don’t know what to do.”

He hadn’t thought he was going to cry until just then, but on this last admission something hot rose up in his eyes, and he had to look away, blinking quickly to dispel it. There was silence between them for a long moment, and it was a damaging silence, the kind that dug too deep and too roughly. Martín waited for the gavel to fall- in some way, it would be a relief, if Sergio were to give him a sentence, become ‘judge’ just as he was ‘professor’. It would make things easier, wouldn’t it? Then Martín wouldn’t have to figure out the punishment himself.

Sergio spoke again.

“I’ve seen how you look at him,” he said carefully. “Helsinki. Mirko, that is. I saw you watching him at dinner last night, when he was telling stories.”

Martín just shook his head. He barely remembered. Everything was moving too slowly.

Sergio raised one hand, holding it in a loose fist, the thumb pointed toward Martín’s chest, like he was about to give a lesson.

“I’ve seen how you look at him,” he repeated. “And I recognize that look, because it is the same one on my face when I look at Raquel. It is the same one on Denver’s face when he looks at Stockholm.”

“That’s not true,” Martín said weakly. “I’m not a...a _lover._ I can’t be. I used it all up, Sergio. I used it all up on your brother, and now I’m just…”

He lifted his hands and dropped them again, unable to think of the right words.

Empty.

(A _doll.)_

“Perhaps,” said Sergio, still teaching. His eyes had a laserlike focus- this was the Professor, not little Sergio, Martín had mistook him. “Perhaps not. But it doesn’t matter either way.”

“...it doesn’t?” Martín felt stupid. He was used to standing at the front of the classroom, playing the clever engineer- not sitting in the pupil’s chair.

“No. It doesn’t matter, because Mirko loves you. And so the best thing that you can do is give back that love- even if it is difficult for you, you must do it anyway. Because personal relations work best when both partners are lovers _and_ beloveds.”

There was a pause, and then the moment was broken. Sergio looked away, putting both hands back in his pockets and shuffling his feet.

“Um, well, I’m not an expert in romantic matters, but that’s what I would say.”

Martín looked at him, and found he had nothing to say in return. The night had taken away all his words.

But maybe that was for the best- he had never been able to use them for anything good.

With some direction from Sergio, Martín made it back to his room, where the Professor bade him goodnight. Inside, Mirko was sleeping.

Moving quietly so as not to wake him, Mirko changed into his nightwear, but once he had he found he was reluctant to sleep- or rather, reluctant to claim his place in that bed, maybe. So instead of slipping under the covers Martín curled in the plush armchair that sat in one corner of the room, where he could watch Mirko’s half-covered chest rise and fall. His breathing sounded like the slow movements of the ocean outside.

Eventually, thinking nothing and feeling only vague despair, Martín fell asleep.

...

When he woke up, the sun was bright where it came through the window, and he heard the sound of children’s laughter- a little boy, and a slightly older girl. He remembered he was in the Philippines, attending the yearly reunion, and he found he had a pain in his neck from lying in a ball on the armchair- and that someone had tucked a blanket around him while he had been sleeping.

Well, not just ‘someone’.

Martín sat up, blinking hard even though he knew the blur in his eyes would never really clear, and when he found the room was empty a certain quiet desperation took hold of him. 

_No._

He didn’t want this.

Without so much as even looking in the mirror Martín threw himself from the chair and out into the corridor, which was the unforgiving wild, and he wrapped himself in the blanket as if it was a shield to the elements. Barefoot and wholly feral Martín darted through the house, not caring what he looked like or who saw him, checking every room.

Denver and Stockholm were in the kitchen, but they were the only ones there, so Martín didn’t stop to say anything.

“Palermo-?” The former.

“...is he alright?” The latter.

In the lounge Rio was tinkering with his computer, but he was alone, so Martín took off again, the blanket whipping around like a cape.

“What are you doing, Palermo? You look like a supervillain…”

In the front yard Marseille was throwing a ball for Seoul, who barked a little anxiously when she saw Martín in the doorway.

“Easy there, girl,” was what Martín heard as he turned back inside.

In the corridor Martín almost ran into Sergio- they stopped and looked at each other, equally stunned, and then Sergio said gently:

“...he’s down by the water.”

On the back deck Tokyo and Lisbon were discussing something, and Tokyo sent him a seemingly automatic glare which he instinctively returned before flying past them, running down the path towards the beach. On the way, the blanket slipped out of his grasp, falling into the grass behind him.

“What’s going on there?” said Lisbon, but her voice was already far away.

Mirko was standing on the beach. Martín could always tell it was him, even when he was so far away that he stood in the broken places of Martín’s vision- his presence was simply too big, too overwhelming not to see. He was like a mountain on the horizon.

“Mirko!” Martín gasped, out of breath as he came to a standstill at last before the larger man, feeling the water wash over his feet. Mirko looked surprised to see him, or maybe just surprised at his state of disarray.

“Martín, you’re-”

_“I’m sorry!”_

Mirko started at that, but was silent.

“I’m sorry,” Martín said again. “I’m sorry, I’m not very good at this. I’ve never had any practice. I- I’m just- there are so many bad things inside me, you know. They’re all still there.”

Mirko started to shake his head, and Martín hushed him, holding a hand up to his lips.

“It’s the first time I’ve had something like this, and I shouldn’t have it at all, not with the way I am. So I’m very sorry.”

Mirko raised one hand, and Martín hushed him again. He felt crazy. He didn’t know if he was making any sense. Did it even matter?

“No, _listen._ I have a secret. Understand? It’s a terrible secret, and I think it’s destroying me. I’ve never let it out before. I don’t know what will happen if I do.”

Martín took a deep breath, steeling himself as though he was about to leap from a cliff to a five hundred meter fall, or put a loaded pistol to his head and pull the trigger. The things he had wanted to do, before all this, but hadn’t found the strength for. This was just the same.

_She said it took courage._

His heart was beating so hard it physically hurt. It wouldn’t be a surprise, if he was to explode like a dying star the moment this was over- in fact, it might be best that way. He was going to disappear, supernova, burn himself alive until he was nothing, because surely he couldn’t survive this.

Trembling, he stood on tiptoe to cup his hand around Mirko’s ear, and even though there was no one else around he had to do this because if he didn’t the secret would escape, be stolen by the wind, and then surely it would become a monster that would ruin everything. He couldn’t let that happen- but he had to let it out. Martín squeezed his eyes shut one last time, and pulled the trigger.

_“I love you.”_

...he whispered.

Then he turned away, taking several steps into the water and covering his face with his hands, feeling all the heat rush to his eyes and becoming certain he was going to cry if his heart didn’t burst. Over the fire that was igniting every bone in his body, he heard Mirko laugh- a familiar, deep, full-body laugh.

He was embraced from behind, and since he wasn’t really exploding, the slight pressure of the body against his began to soothe the tremors, holding all the fragmented, vibrating pieces of him in place. But Mirko had always done that.

“I love you, too.”


	18. Nightwear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A return to the regularly scheduled programming. ^^

Martín had a lot of pajamas. 

He had more pajamas than Mirko had ever owned, by his reckoning. He simply wasn’t the type to make use of them- when it was time to sleep he was comfortable enough in just his boxers, or nothing at all, if the night’s circumstances had been favourable. If he was cold, that’s what blankets (and companions) were for. Special clothes only for sleeping had never really been available in his youth- and so now, even when wealthy, he didn’t think to buy them for himself.

But Martín had plenty- he had an entire drawer in his wardrobe dedicated just to such things. Matching sets in different fabrics, colours, and patterns. Some were flannel, for the winter, others silk, for the summer. Both kinds were unbelievably soft to the touch, so much so that Martín had gotten used to Mirko rubbing his leg or arm at random moments when he was wearing them, just to feel it (and to feel Martín, too).

The designs were all very classy. Black and red checkers, silvery blue and white plaid, smooth gray with dark trim. No love-hearts or leapfrogs or sleeping sheep here. Most had buttons, which seemed like an awful lot of work to Mirko- when he wanted to sleep, he didn’t have the mind to be doing up tens of tiny ivory buttons, especially not the ones on the cuffs! He never wore shirts with cuffs during the day, either (unless Martín was the one dressing him).

But he had learned at least one appeal of the buttons- Martín undoing them one at a time, purring filthy nonsense as more of his skin was slowly revealed. That was a very enjoyable use for buttons indeed.

(Martín had also, once or twice, requested that Mirko rip such shirts off, tearing the buttons from their fixtures- he really seemed to love that, but Mirko always felt a little bad, since it meant he had to buy a new set. Despite what had become of his life- war, prison, robbery- Mirko found he didn’t really like destroying things.)

Martín also kept slippers, and a properly fancy housecoat, and though Mirko did have these for himself somehow Martín’s versions came off as classy when he was wearing them, instead of sloppy. He also changed out these things for new ones whenever they started to show wear and tear, which probably helped. His current housecoat was black, with a Japanese-looking sun and cloud pattern, and his slippers also black and fluffy. 

He made quite a picture, late into a night spent in, fetching olives or milk from the fridge in the complete attire- silk pajamas and a silkier housecoat, fluffy slippers on his feet, hair probably wet from the bath.

Just too pretty, his Palermo.

If Mirko ever pointed out how much he was wearing, Martín would huff a little and say it was because he got cold- and this made sense. He really was very little. There surely wasn’t enough on him to survive a winter in Serbia alone.

(All the more reason to hold him, then.)

“I know what you’re thinking,” Martín called from the kitchen. “And it’s ridiculous. I’m not ‘small’, you’re absurdly large.”

“Okay,” Mirko replied with a small laugh, and when Martín returned with a piece of cheese in his mouth Mirko had him sit on his lap, which was what he had really wanted in the first place.


	19. Nightmare

In the dream, a woman was screaming somewhere.

Mirko was running, and it was dark, and he heard bullets whizzing through the air but he couldn’t tell where they were coming from, or if he was the target being shot at. There were explosions going off in the distance, and the air smelled of smoke and death, and the woman just kept screaming, and screaming, and screaming. Mirko didn’t know where she was, but he felt he had to find her- he _needed_ to find her, but he could barely see, and everywhere he turned the streets were blocked by fire or flying glass or the endless barrage of bullets. 

He was completely alone, because he knew his cousin was _dead,_ and he was _so afraid,_ and she was still _screaming-_

Mirko woke soaking wet and freezing, like he had just taken a dip in the ocean. His breathing was so heavy the sound of it filled the room; his lungs seemed desperate for air, like he really had been drowning. He didn’t recognize the ceiling at first, didn’t understand the sounds of cars passing by outside, nor the softness of the mattress beneath him. He sat up trying to reach for a gun- but there wasn’t one, his bedside table held only a book and a reading lamp. 

That’s right. He wasn’t at war anymore.

Where he actually was in time, though, eluded him a moment more as he sat there, shuddering from head to toe and breathing like the world was running out of air. It eluded him until a warm pair of arms found their way over his shoulders and around his neck, joined by soft lips on the back of his head, and a sleep-laden sigh. This lover was the city in Italy, which meant he was home, and it was all over, and he was safe.

“Nightmare,” Martín murmured, a statement rather than a question, because this wasn’t the first time. Mirko hummed, and rubbed the silk covering Martín’s arms, and let himself be held like this until the shaking began to slow, until his breathing returned under his control.

“Tell me?” Martín whispered, breath hot against Mirko’s ear, an absolute contrast to the frigid winter air in his memories. 

“No point,” Mirko replied. “The woman is already dead.”

Mirko let himself be guided back under the covers, falling easily into a familiar embrace, Martín cradling his head close to his chest. The subtle, clean scent of his skin was comforting.

Martín fell back asleep in moments- perhaps he hadn’t been truly awake- but Mirko did not, lying there for hours, focusing on the soft breathing that was not his, the steady heartbeat he felt against his forehead. He knew that on a night like this, the dreams would only come back the moment he slipped away, and so there would be no rest. But that didn’t mean there couldn’t be peace.

Though he slept deeply, Martín didn’t let him go, and that was all Mirko needed.


	20. Fantasy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! Explicit content in this chapter. Sexy times.

“Happy birthday,” Martín purred, kissing Mirko on the cheek. He was drunk (because Martín never passed up an excuse to get drunk) and sloppily affectionate, his arms wrapped around Mirko’s shoulders and his lips hot where they trailed across his skin. 

Back in the kitchen there were remnants of a feast- rice and veal meatballs, a gibanica, a large pot of locro, a sheet cake, and several empty champagne bottles. The neighbours- among whom Mirko was very well-liked, though he wasn’t always sure why- had, under Martín’s guidance, thrown a small party which was now over, leaving behind a few gifts and a surprisingly clean kitchen (courtesy of Ms. Sanchez next door, who had insisted that no one should do dishes on their birthday- and who had also immediately assumed Martín incapable of stepping up on that front). It had been a happy day. Mirko felt full and comfortable, only a little buzzed on the alcohol himself, but from how Martín was pawing at his collar he had a feeling the planned festivities weren’t entirely over yet.

“Let’s do something tonight,” Martín breathed close to Mirko’s ear, which made him shiver. “Anything you want.”

“Anything I want,” Mirko replied a little slowly, distracted by one of Martín’s hands, which was now playing with the buckle on his belt.

“Any _fantasy,”_ Martín whispered, and then he giggled. “What do you think? We could play student and teacher, or, or I could be your _pet,_ or maybe we could be in the Bank somewhere, with the Professor’s cameras…”

Mirko hummed, considering this, enjoying how Martín was beginning to vibrate slightly on the couch next to him, no doubt worked up by his own suggestions. He kissed Mirko’s cheek again, and then again, and then tugged on his ear with his teeth. Oh, my.

“Okay,” Mirko said, and Martín gasped very softly. “I know what to do.”

…

Martín was blindfolded and naked atop the sheets, and though he crossed his wrists above his head they weren’t bound. He was shivering slightly, but probably not from the cold, and Mirko watched his chest rise and fall for a moment with pleasure before he spoke.

“You were in accident,” Mirko said, and Martín raised one eyebrow, a small smile curling up the corner of his lips. “A very bad accident. Explosion.”

“Oh, no,” Martín murmured coyly. “That’s terrible. Am I injured?”

“Yes,” Mirko said, and he sat down on the bed beside Martín, their bodies not quite brushing. “Injured...here.”

He put his palm on Martín’s chest, right over his heart, which was beating very hard indeed. Martín gasped when he did it, jolting up to meet his touch, and Mirko rubbed him there for a moment, feeling his nipple pebble with excitement.

“And here,” Mirko continued, running his hand slowly down Martín’s belly, finally massaging small circles just above his cock, which was also showing signs of interest. “Hurt very bad inside. And blind now, of course.”

Martín’s lips pursed instantly at that, which made Mirko laugh.

“Of course, very funny,” he said under his breath, and then his voice softened and rose slightly in pitch, taking on the performance of something sweet and delicate and frail. “That’s very bad news, Doctor. What will become of me?”

“You will be fine,” Mirko replied. “I will make you better.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Martín continued, breathy, as Mirko’s hands moved over his body, squeezing any soft place and massaging any joints, measuring any visible bone. He was unbearably beautiful like this to Mirko, so open and innocent and _vulnerable,_ Mirko was already aching. 

(So, clearly, was Martín. The blindfold was having a bigger effect than Mirko had anticipated- even the slightest touch made him shiver.)

Mirko removed his hands, and Martín actually _keened,_ clutching at the rungs of the backboard above his head.

“D-don’t, don’t go, I need- I’m so badly hurt-”

Mirko hushed him. “I know. I’ll fix you up.”

Gently, he lifted one of Martín’s trembling legs, rolling it back to expose another pretty part of his anatomy. Martín seemed to understand, and so even though his chest was heaving he smiled, exposing for an instant something slightly sharp.

“Ah, you will need to operate?” he purred. “Since all the damage is _inside…”_

“Yes,” Mirko said. “But do not worry. I will apply anesthetic, so it will not hurt.”

Martín hummed, biting his lower lip, and that hum turned quickly into a whine as Mirko ran a thumb down his cock, pressing it to his belly and rubbing at the root. He was already a mess, Martín, dripping and twitching and bright pink, and Mirko felt very lucky indeed.

“That’s the- uh- the anes- _the!”_

“No,” Mirko replied gently. “This is.”

Sneakily, he had coated his other hand in some lubricant, though how hypersensitive Martín hadn’t heard the click of the cap he couldn’t say. With his index finger he probed the little furl Martín had between his legs, creating some very impressive shivers indeed.

“That’s good,” Mirko murmured, and with his free hand he stroked Martín’s side like he was a frightened dog. “Good in no time, you will see.”

Martín opened up very easily, because of course his body was used to this particular intrusion, but this time he seemed especially aware of it, trembling and panting and making little nonsense noises. Mirko had to take a moment to stroke his own cock watching this, timing his motions to the deep rising and falling of Martín’s chest.

When they were both slick and ready Mirko clambered between Martín’s legs, which caused the smaller man to buck eagerly, though he still didn’t take his hands down from where Mirko had directed them.

“Easy,” Mirko said. “You are hurt. Don’t open your wounds.”

“Right,” Martín managed, and he licked his lips. “Sorry, Doctor. Please...um, please take good care of me.”

He blushed under the blindfold saying that and, unable to resist, Mirko kissed his knee, which only made the blush brighter.

“I will,” he replied. “Now, take big breath, the operation must begin.”

Martín did as he was told very sweetly, and Mirko lifted him by the legs, lowering him back down gently onto the head of his cock, which slipped in with practiced ease. Martín exhaled slowly as he slid down, and Mirko was certain he felt every millimeter, but didn’t have the mind to consider this very deeply as his own body was overwhelmed by the sensation of being _inside,_ where Martín was so _soft_ and _hot_ and _pulsing._ Mirko could feel his heartbeat when buried all the way in like this, thumping hard and fast against the head of his manhood. Mirko held him still just to enjoy that, and felt Martín’s legs slowly relax, finding their way around Mirko’s back.

“How is that?” Mirko murmured. “Getting better, yes?”

Martín nodded wordlessly, his cheeks still pink and his trembling utterly _desperate,_ and Mirko leaned down to kiss him lightly on the lips before beginning to move.

Martín wailed on the first thrust, but Mirko went very slowly, preferring to spend more time inside than out, making sure that Martín was kept completely full for his own pleasure as much as anything. Martín cried and gasped, he was just _so cute,_ having given himself up even more so than when he took it roughly, when he wanted Mirko to brutalize and dominate him. He was lovely, and Mirko was in love, and he felt _so good_ buried inside like this…

“You- you’re- _Mirko,_ nn, no way- I’ll-”

Martín started to come, and Mirko realized they’d been at it for longer than he’d thought, the moments melting away in pleasure. It was a very slow, blooming kind of orgasm, and Mirko guided him through it with a hand on his cock, pressing inside and _forward_ where he could feel every wave of the thing on his own skin. 

When he was finished Mirko held still, not wanting to hurt him in case he had become sensitive, and Martín gasped like he was drowning, his hands finally forgetting to confine themselves and finding Mirko’s face, neck, and shoulders in turn.

“Fucking hell,” Martín whispered on the exhales. “Fucking _hell.”_

Then, after a moment he piped up again, his voice sweet but still shaking in his throat.

“Oh, that was _unbelievable,_ Doctor. You really have a magic treatment. But the operation isn’t over yet, right?”

“Not yet,” Mirko replied, and he shifted back experimentally, to which Martín moaned and nodded again, clinging to him. Satisfied, Mirko claimed his lips and returned to thrusting, staying slow until he couldn’t anymore, drinking in Martín’s tiny whimpers and sighs.

It wasn’t long, then, before his own edge came, crashing over his body like a tidal wave. He let it out deep inside, making a mark of his love, and he kissed Martín through it until it was his turn to need air and he pressed his forehead to Martín’s chest.

They stayed like this for a little while, both bright with sweat and glowing inside, until the ringing in Mirko’s ears subsided and Martín’s legs began to shake from the effort of being held upright. Only then did he- somewhat reluctantly- pull out and roll onto his back.

“I guess I’m all better,” Martín murmured, and Mirko turned to look as he pulled the blindfold off, flicking it across the room. “Look, you even fixed my eyes.”

Mirko chuckled, and then his own eyes began to slide shut. The room was comfortably warm, he was full of good food and drink and he had just had great sex, all his body needed now was to sleep- and he didn’t doubt this sleep would be a dreamless one.

“Did you have a nice birthday?” Martín whispered, the scenario forgotten, and Mirko nodded, which warranted a soft laugh and a quick kiss before the light was turned off, and Mirko’s brain began shutting down.

_“Good.”_

...was the last thing he heard until morning.


	21. Dreams

Mirko watched Martín lay the final popsicle stick on his creation, admiring less the would-be grand tower and more the way Martín bit his lower lip when concentrating, the way his eyes shone bright green in the afternoon sunlight coming through the window.

“Well, it’s not bad,” Martín said quietly, leaning back on his chair once the hot glue had settled to regard the structure with a critical eye. “It’s ugly as sin, but it would stand up.”

He tittered to himself, and then for the first time he seemed to realize that Mirko was in the room with him, his eyes sliding over to the larger man and his lips parting in surprise.

“Oh,” he said. “How long have you been there?”

Mirko shrugged, smiling. Did it matter? Martín looked sweet when he was caught deep in his own mind. That was reason enough to watch.

“What is it?” Mirko asked, gesturing to the construct on the table, and it was Martín’s turn to shrug, flushing with some mix of embarrassment and mild dislike as he looked back at his popsicle tower.

“Offices, I suppose,” he said spitefully. “A new high-rise. That’s what they taught us to build at school- big, shiny, _hideous_ things. That’s where the money was. Modernity for the future of Argentina.”

Mirko hummed, and Martín folded his arms. There was an odd look on his face- one that Mirko would perhaps call a melancholy variant of nostalgia. The bitterness of looking back on a long-forgotten wound.

“I wanted to build cathedrals,” Martín murmured, his voice little more than a whisper. 

Mirko stood and made his way behind Martín’s chair, rubbing his shoulders to ease the tense muscles and kissing the top of his head to ease the bruised heart. What Martín spoke of was a dream that would never come true. That was always a little sad.

“What did you want to do?” Martín asked, tipping his head back to look up at Mirko. “Before...well, I don’t know. Before _everything.”_

“I was a boy when the war began,” Mirko replied. “So I became a soldier. I never had time to dream.”

“I’m sorry,” Martín replied, and Mirko shook his head.

“No, no. Everything is good now.”

Martín hummed, like he wasn’t sure if that was true, but it was for Mirko. He had never much needed dreams. Still, silence settled between them for a moment, a tiny vigil for the unbuilt cathedrals, and the dreams that had never been dreamt.

“What will you do with it?” Mirko asked, poking the tower with one finger. It did not tremble or shift- it was sturdily made, with good foundations and internal supports. Well, Mirko knew Martín was very clever and talented (when he applied himself, which admittedly, was not always).

Martín smiled wickedly.

“Oh, I should like to throw it off the roof,” he purred. “Or smash it with a baseball bat. Yes. In fact, let’s do that right now.”

Mirko raised his eyebrows at that, but he did enjoy how Martín trotted off to find his instruments of destruction, a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed little fox. He enjoyed more the way Martín laughed at the sound of splintering wood, at the rejection of what he should have become, and of everything proper in the world. 

He certainly enjoyed the kiss he received for participating, something hot and open-mouthed, full of mischievous promises. He loved Martín an awful lot. In these last years, Martín had easily become the thing he loved most of all that lived on Planet Earth.

“You are happy?” Mirko asked him, looking back at the destruction they had left on the driveway.

“Oh, yes,” Martín replied. “I’m very happy.”

So Mirko was happy, too.


	22. Fixation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated Explicit for sexual content. ^^

Mirko had received his fair share of sex out of life, he figured. Back home, it had been difficult at times to find partners- moreso during the war- but that hadn’t stopped him from finding a reasonable number of companions over the years. Some only for a night, others for a few weeks, even a few months- but nothing more than that. Still, he had appreciated them all, and thought of them only with fondness.

He had assumed he was a man with good experience. He had thought he knew, more or less, what a man’s body was capable of, and how much _sensation_ such a body could receive. 

Martín regularly proved such assumptions wrong. 

Mirko groaned, trying to steady his breathing, as Martín did what no other lover had ever been able to achieve- that is, take the entirety of Mirko’s cock down his throat. It was extremely impressive feat. Mirko was not the type to think overly well of himself, but he could not deny that there were some challenges of _length_ and _girth_ involved that had made him generally assume such a task to be impossible. In the past, anyone involved had (quite to his satisfaction) made use of their hands to cover what couldn’t be taken down, but Martín never bothered with this. He didn’t need to.

Mirko settled his hands on Martín’s head, not to guide, but simply to feel, petting the soft hair there in an attempt to convey his appreciation in a way that words couldn’t at the moment. Martín made a quiet, laughing kind of sound which Mirko felt all the way into his belly, and that erased all coherent thought for an instant.

It was an obscene sight that Mirko could not look away from. Martín went at it quite eagerly- indeed, it was usually he who suggested this, if ‘suggested’ was the right kind of word for that hungry look in his eyes when he pushed Mirko back into a chair and started unbuckling his belt, murmuring filthy things Mirko could barely hear over the rush of his own blood in his ears. The _sounds_ Martín made were unbelievable- languid moans and soft, erotic sighs- it was like he received some tangible, _physical_ pleasure from having Mirko sliding in and out of this part of him, which had not been designed for such things. But for all Mirko knew, he did.

Martín would flush bright pink across his cheeks, making his scars stand out, and his eyes would water, so much so at times that there might be tears for Mirko to wipe away with his thumb (though these were not unhappy tears, certainly not, Mirko had been assured of this plenty). Such tears might catch in his long eyelashes, giving the impression that he was somehow wearing diamonds in them, and this was one of Mirko’s favourite sights. This was all to say nothing of his lips, turned red and swollen and slick with his own spit, quivering from the _stretch_ when they curled into a sly smile as he licked at the head with a hot pink tongue.

Indeed, it often looked like Martín was the one being debauched, like Mirko had control over what was happening between his legs, but this couldn’t be farther from the truth. Mirko was barely holding on. He couldn’t think straight, and could barely speak, the only words he found himself capable of being some incoherent mix of _‘good’, ‘yes’, ‘Martín’,_ and sometimes an additional _‘Palermo’._ While Martín, underneath his trembling and ruined facade, knew _exactly_ what he was doing and did it with barely any genuine exertion- a master of the craft. Mirko guessed that this prowess- and the complete destruction of anything resembling a gag reflex- came from experience far greater than his, and he was quite happy indeed to be the one receiving the result. 

When the end came, Martín responded one of two ways, depending on his mood- most of the time he would swallow it all down, looking deeply pleased as if it were a gift, and not well-earned pay. But other times, when he was a little wilder, he would pull away at the moment of completion- no doubt having sensed its approach from a kilometre away, through roadsigns engraved in Mirko’s body- and let the result spray across his face, leaving stains on his lips and chin that he would lap at like a kitten, and such a sight was so overwhelming Mirko often thought he might die.

This time, he drank it, and pressed one last wet kiss to the head of Mirko’s exhausted member before backing away, looking so pleased with himself Mirko practically melted into the chair. He tried to reach out- to take hold, embrace, to kiss Martín and at least attempt to reciprocate- but he was too weak and out of breath to match the distance as Martín wandered lazily away, over to the bathroom to perhaps drink a bit of water or brush his teeth.

“I think Tokyo was right,” he called over his shoulder, intentionally ignoring how completely he had destroyed Mirko, who was still breathing too heavily to speak. “About the milk thing, that is- were you there? I don’t remember. She said my mother did not give me enough milk, and that it is the source of my many faults and defects.”

Mirko shook his head a little mindlessly, watching Martín take a swig of mouthwash from his cup and spit it back out again, his expression undoubtedly one of unbridled adoration.

“I think in psychology,” Martín continued when his mouth was free, “this would be called an ‘oral fixation’. What do you think?”

Mirko just stared as Martín came back within holding distance, letting Mirko wrap his arms around his waist and rewarding him with a kiss on the forehead, and then the lips. Whatever he had been saying barely penetrated Mirko’s addled mind.

“My turn,” he grunted, feeling just as stupid as an animal, and Martín giggled as he was pushed to sit on the nearby bed, and Mirko was the one to kneel.


	23. Породица (1/3)

_“Hello. My name is Martín Berrote,”_ said Martín in Serbian. _“It’s nice to meet you.”_

His accent wasn’t terrible, but his cadence was oddly even, as he didn’t know where to dip or raise his tone to make the speech sound natural. At some of the harsher, affricate consonants- the syllables that pulled all the way back into one’s throat- he would cock his head to the side, as if this aided in the challenge of making sounds that existed in neither Spanish nor Italian nor English, all of which he spoke reasonably well.

 _“Very good,”_ Mirko replied, patting his hand reassuringly, and then he spoke again in a clearer, louder voice: _“Where are you from, Martín?”_

“What? Oh, Argentina,” Martín said, and then he grinned a little sharply. _“That is, Argentina. Now live Argentina._ Umm…”

 _“Now I live in Argentina,”_ Mirko corrected calmly. _“I live with Mirko.”_

Martín repeated this, his tongue curling in ways Mirko’s didn’t, and at the last part he laughed.

“This is terrible,” he said in Spanish. “I’m not going to have a clue what’s going on.”

“That is fine,” Mirko replied. _“I think she’ll appreciate the effort.”_

Martín listened to this very carefully, lips tracing the lines of the words after Mirko had fallen silent to pick apart their meaning. When he understood it was obvious, a little light appeared in his eyes, and he smiled a smile that looked more bitter than sweet.

“Maybe,” Martín said doubtfully. “But I don’t think she’ll appreciate _me-_ the man who swept her only living grandson away to another continent, and a life of crime, and…”

He tipped his head back and stretched out his legs under the kitchen table, sock feet brushing Mirko’s thighs. The look in his eyes was seductive on the surface, but there was something dark under it that Mirko recognized from the Philippines, from the bottom of a wine bottle, from the first time he had met Martín, in that Italian monastery.

“...and other such degeneracy.”

Mirko shook his head, giving Martín’s hand a little squeeze.

“No,” he said. “I am criminal already. In prison, out of prison. I lived in Argentina with Nairobi, disappeared. This is not a surprise.”

Martín watched him for a moment, frowning, gears turning back and forth inside his head, making some calculation Mirko couldn’t see and, even if he could, probably wouldn’t understand. Then he piped up again, in a deceptively soft voice:

“Mirko, what’s the Serbian word for ‘faggot’?”

“Martín-”

“-it's only natural _someone_ will say it, I know I certainly look like one-”

“Martín, no-”

“-though I suppose I’ll be able to tell just by the tone,” Martín continued, and Mirko stopped trying to interrupt, sighing to himself. There was a poison in Martín, and it reared its head in times like this. “...no matter the language, you can always tell when someone _hates_ you.”

“Martín,” Mirko said again, and this time something in his voice made Martín look back at him, eyes clearing with surprise. Such lovely eyes.

“Martín, I want to go,” Mirko said simply. “I want her to meet you.”

Martín curled around himself on the chair, drawing up his knees and crossing his arms upon them. There was a touch of pink high on his cheeks- perhaps the colour of embarrassment or anger, but hopefully not of shame. 

“I know,” Martín mumbled. There was quiet for a moment, and then his eyes flickered carefully across the table up to Mirko’s face, and he added: “Let’s keep practicing.”

“Okay,” Mirko replied with a small smile, and he pointed to the bowl of apples on the table between them. _“What are these?”_

 _“Fruit?”_ Martín tried.

_“Yes. How many?”_

_“Uh...seven.”_

_“Do you like apples?”_

_“‘Apples’,_ is it? Okay. _Yes, Mirko. Apples is my favourite.”_

_“Very good.”_

...and so the evening went on.


	24. Породица (2/3)

The little house on the outskirts of Belgrade was almost too full of human bodies. Children, some as young as four and five, darted back and forth between the cramped corridors, playing games and only through some peculiar magic managing to avoid knocking down the many spindly tables and glass cupboards, filled with framed photographs and hand-embroidered doilies and fancifully painted dishes.

This was the house of Mirko’s grandmother: the matriarch of a very large extended family, much of which gathered here every year for the Christmas holidays. An important observation: almost everyone present was a child, or a woman. The men in the family had not weathered so well the test of time, or of their society. Many were in jail currently- these were the fathers of the young children who played so freely- living lives of perpetual crime and incarceration, in and out, in and out again, just like Mirko and Dimitri had. Many more were already dead, including Mirko’s father and grandfather- some killed in the war, and others afterwards, from the bad luck of a life of crime or the memory-pain that affected all soldiers, that led them into drink and darkness. The last time Mirko had come here, Dimitri had still been alive. Now, there was again one more absence.

(He wouldn’t say this, even to himself- wouldn’t form this thought in full, in case it hurt him irreperably- but perhaps this was why he had run away to exotic Argentina with Nairobi, after the first heist. It was too much to return here, to have them look at him knowing he had failed to protect his cousin, his war-brother, his closest companion.)

Still, everyone seemed happy to see him now, and Mirko unreservedly felt the same way. The children had all grown, and it was a joy to play with them. The women thanked him for the money he sent- the money he always sent, every month, even in his absence, to give them food and shelter and good education in a place that didn’t want them to have such things- and embraced him warmly. He found himself more than once overwhelmed by these old scents and sensations, to the point where heat pricked behind his eyelids. The house smelled of rich food being cooked, another nostalgia to fill his senses, and the people moving back and forth from the kitchen to converse- all of them familiar faces, speaking in his native tongue- created a lively bustle. The years between them all fell away, as such things always did with family.

Mirko was happy to be home.


	25. Породица (3/3)

Mirko’s grandmother came and sat beside him, patting the back of his large hand with her small, wrinkled one. He smiled at her, sleepy- the holiday feast had already been consumed, and now the family had gathered themselves in the crowded sitting room, putting off the matter of coffee and cleaning until the food had been better digested.

“So,” she said to him in a measured voice. “He’s cute.”

Mirko started, and then laughed convulsively from deep within his belly- a sound of surprise as much as humour.

“Yes,” he replied. “He is very cute.”

Of course, there was one figure that stood out among the throngs of Mirko’s humongous broken family, and that was Martín. With his fair hair and small frame and sharp green eyes- which was to say nothing of his demeanour, or his finely tailored clothes- he was as startling as a black sheep in the middle of a snowy flock. For every move he made, someone was watching him, for his strangeness made him impossible not to watch. Mirko saw how he struggled- his language was limited only to a handful of words and phrases in present tense, it was clear he barely understood what was happening around him, and because it was in his nature he was suspicious, holding his head high in case anyone found him lacking and his eyes flickering back and forth in search of someone who did. At the moment, though, his focus was absorbed by some of the younger children who, enthralled by an adult who did not know how to speak, were teaching him to play a game of marbles with elaborate gestures and slow, drawn-out words. 

“He’s a thief, then, like you?” his grandmother asked, and Mirko nodded. “He wouldn’t last very long in one of our prisons. What do the Spaniards feed their children?”

“He might surprise you,” Mirko told her with a chuckle, not bothering to correct her assumption. Martín had certainly surprised Mirko, plenty of times.

“How did he get those scars?” she asked, her voice lowering, and though Martín couldn’t possibly have understood the change in tone made him flash a little look Mirko’s way, curious and accusatory.

“A bullet landed in glass near his face,” Mirko told her, but he looked over at Martín in reassurance, and slowly the other man turned back to the game on the floor before him. “He cannot see very well anymore.”

“Oh, poor dear,” she murmured, and Mirko knew from her tone that the sentiment was genuine. Still-

“What do you think, Bako?” Mirko asked, looking away to meet her gaze in full. In _earnest._ It was too important to ask this question, when he had no mother or father to ask it to. And it was clear she understood, as she held herself still for a torturous minute, watching him closely. Her eyes resembled Dimitri’s, the son of her second son, both of whom were long dead.

“Do you love him?” she finally replied, and for a moment Mirko felt a shock- the words sent him back in time, to a warm room in the Italian countryside lit by dim electric candles, to a bed slightly too small and the incredulous, protective, achingly familiar voice of another woman-

_“Are you in love, Helsi?”_

-a woman who, like so many others, was absent from this dinner table.

“Yes,” Mirko told his grandmother. “I do love him.”

Nairobi had been right, of course- first it had been only ‘in love’. But that had changed- perhaps in the Bank, when Martín had revealed his true name and his first ounce of humility, or perhaps in the Philippines, when Martín had told Mirko he loved him for the first time, or perhaps in any tiny, inconsequential moment before or after these. It didn’t matter. It was the truth, now.

“Then it’s all good,” she said to him with a smile, giving his hand a firm squeeze. “You’re doing very well for yourself.”

She stood then, and Mirko watched her cross the room with vaguely dampened eyes. She tapped Martín on the shoulder and (to the disappointment of the children) drew him from the game.

“Come help me prepare the coffee,” she told him smartly. “I think we do it a little differently than you might be expecting…”

_“Sí-_ coffee? Yes…” Martín managed in his unnatural Serbian, eyes wide and slightly bewildered, but he stood and followed her into the kitchen anyway. Mirko chuckled. He could only suppose it would be quite a sight in there, and Martín would struggle...but at the moment, his belly was simply too full and his heart too warm to want to move. In this instant, a female cousin replaced his grandmother in the chair beside him, asking about his adventures in Latin America, and the new conversation soon enveloped his thoughts.

Martín hadn’t any reason to be afraid, and that night, Mirko would be sure to tell him.

Like she had said- it was all good, then.


	26. Clementine

Mirko had barely noticed anything, himself. He had thought it was ‘nothing’.

He only understood what had happened in retrospect, realized that the week when every meal tasted dull and the little tickle in the back of his throat wouldn’t go away had been more than ‘nothing’.

In Martín, it started with a fever.

He was dizzy getting out of bed in the morning, and when Mirko took his temperature he was a little above normal, and though Martín said it was _nothing,_ he looked away when he said it. Mirko knew what thoughts were bubbling under the surface of his mind- they had both seen the news lately. But was it really-? Could it really-? It almost didn’t seem possible...

“I feel very strong,” Martín told him, shrugging off a hand on his shoulder. “Honestly, it could be anything.”

But the next day, Martín failed to wake until noon, and when Mirko touched his skin it felt like his blood was on fire. That was enough to make Mirko want to call someone, but Martín refused, rolling his puffy eyes and shifting on sweat-soaked pillows.

“Oh, don’t say such nonsense, Helsinki, I’m _fine-_ and besides, have you forgotten what we _are?_ The Spanish police certainly haven’t…”

Mirko agreed, but he did not like how weakly Martín spoke, how it was difficult for him to swallow the pills Mirko brought him, how he did not have the appetite to eat. The fever stayed all day, and all night…

...and Mirko woke in the very early morning to the sound of Martín coughing.

The next day, after a night of only fitful sleep and increasingly violent bouts of coughing, Mirko disobeyed and called the number people were supposed to call for such suspicions from a telephone box down the street. The woman on the other end of the line was informative, but brusque- she told him what he could do, but it didn’t sound like he could really do anything, and that was unbearable to him.

“Only bring him to a hospital if he can no longer breathe on his own. There aren’t enough beds for every case.”

Those words had put a sliver of something very cold indeed into the marrow of Mirko’s bones. If someone could no longer breathe on their own, how was that not death? Perhaps it was only a step away from death. And Mirko remembered with sudden, terrible clarity the makeshift hospitals from the war of his youth, the ones he had often helped in, where ‘beds’ had been little more than mats pressed too close together on a hard floor. Where everyone had breathed the same sour air. Death had walked those ‘hospital’ aisles with perfect ease.

Mirko returned to the apartment and took stock of their food, and Martín coughed in the other room. When he went to bring him water, Martín was sitting up, his legs dangling over the side of the bed. His eyes had a fever-brightness to them so intense they nearly glowed.

“It must be...don’t you think?” Martín asked him, almost coyly, like he was speaking of an unliked dinner guest.

Mirko put the water on the bedside table and moved to kiss Martín’s shining forehead for his bravery, but Martín leaned away.

“I don’t know,” he murmured softly, his voice already ragged around the edges. “Perhaps you shouldn’t.”

...and wasn’t that a terrible thing to hear?

So Mirko went onto the Internet (something he wasn’t often inclined to do) and read all of the articles and statistics, on American websites and European websites and the local ones for Argentina, and none of them said anything that reassured him. It was all the same- there was nothing that Mirko could do, even in hospitals there was no cure, only treatment for symptoms- bandaids for bullet holes. And worse- unimaginably worse- people were dying from this, young people, healthy people, fit people with no ‘pre-existing conditions’. People like Martín.

Martín could die from this. 

He only learned one good thing- living in such close quarters, if Martín had it then he certainly did too. There was no reason to stay away. Thinking this, Mirko turned off the computer and went back into the bedroom to lie down beside Martín, who had fallen back asleep. Every breath scraped something in his chest on the way out.

The next day, Mirko helped Martín shower, since in his weakness he had difficulty standing on his own. Mirko couldn’t help but notice how he trembled, how his eyes were rimmed with red but his lips dry and white. How he only breathed high in his chest, and when he started coughing he couldn’t stop for far too long.

“Everything fucking _hurts,”_ Martín complained quietly. He held one hand out in front of himself while Mirko wrapped him in a towel, as though stunned by his own shaking fingers. “It’s like I’m a newborn.”

Mirko embraced him from behind and kissed his temple. He didn’t have the strength to say anything. There was a terrible fear inside him, and where Martín’s blood was boiling his own was cold as ice. For a long time they both sat there, Mirko refusing to let Martín go, as though the strength of his arms could protect him, as though through sheer physical presence Mirko could shield him from any bad fate, any dark spectre. A hand came up and stroked Mirko’s cheek lightly, and he realized he was about to cry.

“This isn’t any fun for you, is it?” Martín rasped. “Pity. Like this I don’t make a very sexy patient.”

That night Mirko changed all the sheets and pillows and comforters for freshly cleaned ones, and Martín put on a show of appreciation as he settled in, making a greater effort than before to drink his water and some thin broth. He fell asleep fairly quickly, but Mirko didn’t join him- he sat up in bed beside, stroking Martín’s damp forehead, brushing away thin strands of brown-blond hair. He listened to every painful inhale.

But eventually, some time in the early morning, Mirko did slip away into sleep, though he only noticed this when he woke the next morning, the little lines of orange light on the bedside clock reading 9:46- later than he had thought. Martín had fallen silent- no, Martín wasn’t in the room with him.

Vaguely uneasy, Mirko stood, making his way out of the bedroom on sleep-heavy legs. It wasn’t hard to find Martín- he was in the kitchen, drinking a glass of orange juice. Mirko stared at him- it was a bold thought, but even with his messy hair and red cheeks and sweat-stained nightwear, he looked better than he had before.

“Good morning,” Martín said. His voice was hoarse, but remarkably strong. “It's a nice day out, don’t you think?”

The window behind him was open, letting in a fresh breeze, the scent of a mild rainfall. Mirko crossed the room and lay a hand flat against Martín’s forehead- he was warm, but not so terribly warm as before. 

The feeling of relief was indescribable.

Martín’s recovery from then on was sure and steady. Textbook. His appetite returned, his breathing deepened in his lungs, and his fever petered out. He slept more deeply, more evenly, and before long didn’t need any help getting in and out of the shower. He even became restless, as was his nature- after all, they still couldn’t leave the apartment for some time, relying on neighbours to bring extra groceries to the front door.

“Were you really worried? You were, weren’t you?” Martín chirped coquettishly from where he lay on the couch, poking Mirko’s thigh with one slippered foot. His breathing, then, was almost completely regular- the coughing had stopped a few days ago. To respond, Mirko only nodded.

“Ah, well,” Martín murmured, turning back to the clementine he was peeling. “I suppose I’m a lucky one...or maybe I’m just not the type to die from diseases.”

He frowned for a fraction of a second, and then swung his legs over the side of the couch, patting the space beside him. Mirko took the offer (he always would) and Martín held a freed piece of fruit up to his lips. Another offer accepted. Martín’s fingertips lingered against his mouth as he chewed.

“Shouldn’t I reward you for your hard work? Since you were so worried…”

The fruit was not the only thing that was sweet.


	27. Disfrazarse

The costume party where they had ended up was in full swing. Mirko didn’t know whose house this was- he had simply followed Martín here from the club, from the street parties, through the dew-slick black alleys that shone in the moonlight like something from a dream. The details didn’t matter, all Mirko needed was for those warm fingers to intertwine with his, for that sweet-cruel voice to whisper in his ear, and he would be off. He would probably follow Martín anywhere.

And tonight, oh, tonight Martín was especially beautiful- especially _feral._ Like some kind of fairy-spirit from the children’s horror stories Mirko’s grandmother had told him as a child, Martín seduced him with only a glance, dragging him away into another world of sparkling glass and mind-addling drinks, of flickering lights and strangely-coloured shadows, a world where all was night and music and screams and time had no practical meaning anymore.

Mirko’s own costume was very simple, he was dressed as a bandit in the old cartoon sense, with black-and-white stripes and a mask that was not but a scarf with two holes cut in it for his eyes. Martín had laughed outrageously when he saw it, told him it was _perfect,_ and in a way it was- somehow, Mirko didn’t entirely recognize himself whenever he caught a glimpse of his own distorted reflection in some shop window or puddle in the street. What a strange shock. It was a greater shock still whenever he came across a masked Dalí intent on their own festivities, with their red jumpsuits and fists held high, laughing- an even eerier mirror. Not one of them recognized him. But of course, how could they?

Martín was dressed as a vampire, and it suited him obscenely well. He had painted his skin white, and so at a distance his face became a miniature moon in the darkness, just as stark and cold and gleaming as the real (and full) one in the sky. His lips were stained red, he had coloured them sloppily on purpose with that fake blood that came in a squeeze bottle, but in the night it didn’t look fake in the slightest. To his eyes he had done nothing, yet still they glowed, and he looked both stuffed to the brim and desperately hungry. _Starving._ He was a night-creature, a tempter, both irresistible and dangerous beyond measure- Mirko was entirely enthralled. 

(And of course, all of these things were true.)

For some time- only a few minutes, yet it felt much longer- Mirko lost Martín in the throngs of people and thick clouds of smoke in the room, and he found himself haphazardly pushed into an armchair in one corner, the seat of which was stained with something wet (not that it mattered, not on a night like tonight). Ghoulish faces flickered before him, with wide grins and smudged makeup; limbs seemed to blend together, no one figure was distinct, and no clear voice could be heard over the animal pounding of the music that had burrowed its way deep into Mirko’s skull, transfixing him, placing him under a spell.

Then, Martín appeared from amidst the arms of the many-headed beast, it parted before him like water, and in an instant Mirko was being straddled by his lover the demon, who pushed him back against the chair and licked a hot stripe up his cheek. The blood on Martín’s lips had smeared across his cheek, almost like he had been kissing someone else- or even more likely, splitting the throat of a fresh victim. Martín bit his ear, and his teeth felt impossibly sharp, even though he hadn’t put on fake ones as part of his costume- but no, he didn’t need fake teeth, not on such a night, when the borders between dreams and reality were so blurry. Mirko found he could easily believe that Martín had sprouted fangs entirely on his own.

Martín was whispering something, and Mirko could tell it was filthy for how he rocked against his body, how hot his breath was against his neck, but he couldn’t hear a single word. In response he grabbed Martín’s ass- bold and brutish, he was a simple robber again, a thug, and this was his bounty. Martín laughed silently under the music, throwing his head back, revealing bloodstained teeth- and then he kissed Mirko fiercely, his fingernails scraping down the back of Mirko’s neck, sending lightning across the skin of his entire body.

The whole world had gone wild, made drunk and altered by the full moon. Somehow, everyone in the room- in the streets, in the city- had become exactly what they appeared to be, and nothing more.

The bandit dragged his treasure into another room of the house, one with a semblance of privacy- a safe to store his loot- and the vampire sank his teeth in deep, drinking the man down until he was drained of all vitality, and had no choice but to fall asleep.


	28. Before

Palermo locked the motel door behind him, the sound a simple ‘click’ in the stale air. Mirko had already closed the curtains, but Palermo peeked out at the street anyway, lifting one tawny sheet to let a ray of silver daylight in. Mirko looked at him- he was pale. From this angle, the bloody scabs where Mirko had picked glass from his face were visible from behind the sunglasses he was wearing.

“All good?” Mirko asked, and Palermo shrugged.

“Nothing unusual,” he murmured, letting the room fall into darkness again. Mirko turned on a lamp- a yellow light, this time, though it was dim.

It had been only a few days since they had escaped the Bank- splitting up into pairs under the Professor's orders to lead the Spanish and international authorities on a wild chase about the globe before reconvening- ideally with no tails- in Oceania a month from now to pick up their spoils. It was not so easy to divvy up gold pips as it was unmarked euros- and there had been no boat, not this time.

Palermo removed his sunglasses. Under them, the full extent of the damage could be seen- not only the scabs (which Mirko, with his experience, was becoming increasingly certain would turn into very permanent scars) but also the bruise-like shadows, a sign of sure exhaustion. Mirko wondered if his eyes were the same. Worse than either of these, though, was that a blood vessel had reopened in Palermo’s left eye (likely due to the air pressure in the plane they had flown in on), flooding the sclera, surrounding the green in vicious red.

“Do you hurt?” Mirko asked, approaching and touching Palermo’s cheek very gently, just under the afflicted organ. Palermo seemed surprised by this- at first his head twitched away, as if he had been shocked, and then he relaxed, allowing Mirko to stroke his swollen skin.

“No,” he replied softly. They were standing closer, now, than they had in some time- even though Mirko had volunteered to go with him, he had kept a certain, almost professional distance since they had left the others. Mirko hadn’t thought much of it until just then. They had been in plenty of danger. Things had been very painful as of late…

“No, it doesn’t hurt,” Palermo repeated, and he moved away, taking off his jacket and hanging it from one of the hooks behind the door. He smiled absently, crossing the floor on sock feet to touch the mini-fridge in the room, and then back over to the window, where he peered out from the corner once more.

“Hardly a place for millionaires like us,” he said with a slight smirk, but Mirko didn’t laugh. He was beginning to feel far too aware of himself- his size, his presence. An English expression flickered through his mind- _the elephant in the room._ It wasn’t quite like that night before they had entered the Bank- no, not like that. Palermo was not being cruel. But still, Mirko felt like he was too much for the fragile air that stood between them.

“You would rather…” Mirko began, and Palermo looked back at him. “You would rather I am not here?”

“No,” Palermo said instantly, and he dropped the curtain again. Once more, surprise, a little electric shock. Mirko had a helpless thought- as with all men to him, being injured and bloody only made Palermo prettier. “I was only...to tell you the truth, I didn’t think you would want to come with me, after everything.”

Mirko considered this.

“I said I am not losing anyone else,” he told him after a moment, standing up straighter. “Martín Berrote.”

Those two words still sounded almost like something forbidden, even now. A precious kind of secret. Across the room, Palermo turned his head to the side like a curious animal. The lamp was dim, and his left eye looked impossibly dark, as though the blood within had turned black.

“I remember,” he replied. “But people can say many things- people can say the loveliest things in the world, and still walk away.”

Mirko shook his head, and took a step closer to Palermo, just one, and then another. Very careful steps, like he really was a giant, like he would shake the floor and smash down the walls if he didn’t move with complete awareness of his being in relation to the room. Palermo only watched him, not afraid but perhaps not _confident,_ either, not in the way he had been confident before.

Mirko touched his cheek again. A small red tear leaked from the outer corner of Palermo’s eye, and Mirko wiped it clean with his thumb.

“I don’t want to walk away,” he said, and Palermo shivered very deeply, a tremor lancing through his body that made even his breath quake. For an instant, Mirko thought he saw something behind his eyes break- but that could only be an illusion.

Slowly, achingly slowly, Palermo began to lean forward, his damaged eyes darting back and forth across Mirko’s face, like he was looking for some reproach. Mirko knew he wouldn’t find it there. He heard Palermo breathe, he was still shivering. Mirko lowered the hand he had been holding to Palermo’s cheek.

Then, a kiss. A very light, chaste kiss, nothing more than a fragile press of lips to the corner of Mirko’s mouth, and then his cheek. Mirko turned his head and kissed him back, as gently as he could, and Palermo sighed softly.

There was quiet for a moment.

“I get a wrap for your eye,” Mirko said, and briefly Palermo’s lips twitched up into a smile.

“No, that’s alright,” he murmured. “But I think I will lie down. I feel like I haven’t slept in days.”

Mirko stepped back, and Palermo sat down on the bed, kicking off his socks. He started on his belt buckle, and then looked up at Mirko.

“You can join me, if you want,” he said, and it was a testament to the fact that something between them had changed, because his voice did not take on a tone of mocking, unkind flirtation. So Mirko took to the opposite side of the bed and undressed himself similarly (to the point where it was comfortable, but not all the way) and settled down beneath the covers with him. Palermo’s eyes were already closed. Another leak of blood formed a slow-moving red line down his temple.

“I can hold you?” Mirko asked quietly, and Palermo smirked for an instant, the expression fading on his face before it was even fully formed.

“Yes,” he replied. Another surprise. Mirko shuffled over, wrapping his arms around Palermo’s littler figure, bringing him close under his chin. He felt warm inside. This was good. Everything had become soft around the edges. He hadn’t been able to do this before.

“See you tomorrow,” Palerm...Martín murmured, his voice already fogged with sleep, and Mirko squeezed him slightly in reply. In no time at all he wasn’t conscious anymore, but Mirko held on a little longer, listening to Martín’s breathing and the sounds of distant traffic outside. 

This was better than before.


End file.
